


So You Thought You Might Like to Go to the Show.

by Pthithia



Series: (Practically) Perfect in Every Way [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light Pining, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6900106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pthithia/pseuds/Pthithia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Can I ask you something?" Enjolras asked, voice muffled by Grantaire’s chest.</p>
<p>"Anything."</p>
<p>"Why did you tell me that? We're not friends. You must think I hate you. And that's an intensely personal story. Why let me hear it?"</p>
<p>"I told you. Most stories are sad. Some have sad beginnings, some have sad middles, and some have sad ends. It's up to you to decide which you want."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Enjolras reveals his crumbling marble façade, and Grantaire offers to help pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So You Thought You Might Like to Go to the Show.

"And you're sure this is enough?"

"Yes, yes, of course. I already sent in the prescription order for you, but this should hold you over for at least a week, until they have them ready."

Enjolras worried at the inside of his lip, a sample bottle of Xanax back in hand. "Well, alright."

"So," Lamarque said brusquely, pen clicking open, "tell me what you experienced while on the Klonopin; it should help Dr. Mabeuf narrow down what exactly went wrong so we can get you on the correct drug."

Enjolras turned the bottle over in his hand, a nervous habit picked up over the years. "It was a panic attack, a really bad one, like I used to get when I first came in to see you. And it was about nothing at all, either, but I was just so overwhelmed and I blacked out-"

"Where?"

"Um, in my apartment? I barely made it through the front door, and I must have been out for hours. It was dark by the time I came to."

"How many days had you been taking the Klonopin?" Lamarque asked, looking up at Enjolras through his glasses. Enjolras was shockingly reminded of Combeferre, and he looked down, ashamed.

"Three days. It was almost like I was taking nothing at all, it didn't seem to do anything for me," he muttered, scratching at the label on the Xanax.

"I see," Lamarque said, low and even. "Well, Enjolras, thank you for coming back in. We'll get this all cleared up for you, okay?"

"Okay."

Enjolras was walking out of the office, tucking the bottle into the bottom of his bag, when he heard his name called.

He turned to see the exact people he had no desire to be around: his friends, or, more accurately, Joly and Bossuet, towing Grantaire behind them. They rounded the building from the main street.

"Enjolras! I thought I recognized that statue!" Bossuet joked, clapping the blonde on the shoulder. He grimaced.

"We're on our way to the Musain-" Joly began, leaning on his cane.

"Yeah, what are you still doing out?" Bossuet asked cheerfully.

Enjolras frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Uh, there is still a meeting tonight, right?" Joly asked uncertainly.

"What?"

Grantaire gave him a strange look. "Tonight. It's Saturday. Did you call off the meeting, or...?"

Enjolras’ stomach plummeted. The meeting. _He had forgotten about the fucking meeting!_

"Cause if not, you're like, five minutes late," Bossuet said, laughing uncomfortably.

"Shit. _Shit._ I..." he swiveled in the direction of the Musain, a hand coming up to pull at his hair. "I'm late," he said dumbly.

Joly frowned, and the smile on Bossuet's face slipped away. Grantaire furrowed his brows.

"Hold on, I just need to call Ferre, _god_ , I'm such an _idiot_ , I can't believe I-"

"Enjolras?" Joly grabbed his arm, stopping his fumbling through his bag. "Is everything okay? It's not like you to forget stuff-"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he snapped, hands closing around his phone. "Just hold on."

He set off down the opposite end of the street, dialing the number he knew by heart as his confused friends struggled to keep up.

"Hey 'Ferre, I-"

_"Where are you? Everyone's here,"_ Combeferre's voice came through the speaker.

"I know, I'm so sorry, I'm on my way," Enjolras huffed, heaving his slipping bag back up his shoulder. "Look, just start without me and I can take over when I get there."

_"Where are you?"_

"A couple streets away, I'll be there in five minutes, alright?"

_"Is everything okay?"_

"Yes," Enjolras snapped, once again lifting up the obstinate bag. "I have to go."

He hung up without hearing Combeferre's goodbye, shoving the phone into his front pocket. He could feel the pharmacy-grade paper and plastic digging into his ribs from inside his bag.

*

He could physically feel his head pounding at the temples, the ache making black spots in his vision. He just wanted to go home, dammit.

"... and in which case, it would be wiser of us to only have two or three people in charge, considering how many of us got arrested last time. They can't take all of us if only a few are caught." He swept his blonde curls out of his eyes for the umpteenth time. He'd forgotten to schedule a haircut and was now going on two weeks of annoying, too-long hair. But there were other things for him to be worrying about rather than his hair. Like his classes. And doctor visits.

He ran a hand through it again, flipping to the next few pages of notes listlessly. He was nursing a beautiful stress headache at the base of his skull, as well as the one at his temples, and he honestly wasn't feeling up to continuing the meeting for much longer. He sighed, shifting his weight to the right leg.

"Let's see... 'Ferre, do you have the flash drive with my slides?" he asked, rifling through the mess of papers on the table before him.

"I gave those to you a week ago, Enj," Combeferre said. He frowned behind his glasses. "Are you okay?"

"Fine, I'm fine," he snapped, continuing his search in vain.

"Are you sure?" Jehan asked from the spot next to Enjolras. "You're looking a little green-"

"I said I'm fine!" he grumbled, ignoring how the room began to grow quiet.

"Enj, why don't we just cut the meeting short?" Jehan insisted calmly, worry scrunching his eyebrows together. "You seem a little distracted. Maybe you should get some rest. We can postpone this one."

"No. Everything will be fine, if I can just find this goddamn-"

"But Enjolras-"

_"Enough!!!"_ he almost shouted, throwing the papers back on the table, red a black spots in his vision. "I said I was fine, Prouvaire, so why don't you go bother someone else for a change??"

A deafening hush fell over the room, and Jehan's face fell, his pretty green eyes filling with tears.

"I'm sorry," Enjolras heard him say over the roaring in his ears, but that was the last thing Enjolras heard before he grabbed his bag (to hell with the rest of it) and made a beeline for the door.

And for the first time in a long time, nobody followed him out.

*

There was nothing quite like coming home to your shitty couch to drink shitty wine out of a shitty coffee mug after a shitty day, Enjolras grumbled to himself as he struggled with the door, cursing nobody in particular, trying to pry open the obstinate lock.

It flew open suddenly, and he almost lost his balance, dropping the keys on the carpet. It took all of Enjolras’ focused effort and self-control not to kick a hole through the goddamn door as he scooped up his keys, throwing them in the general direction of his bookbag and making a beeline for the kitchen.

He'd already begun to feel the guilt, since he sat on the couch, since he got home, since he first said those rude things to Jehan. Poor Jehan. Nobody could stand being angry at him for long; he was too lovable and sweet. Anyway, he didn't deserve to take the brunt of Enjolras' frustrations. He knew that now, knew it then, even, but he did it anyway.

Rather than dwell on these guilty thoughts, he swiped the laptop off the coffee table and opened it, grumbling to himself again as he noticed the battery blinking 19% up at him, remembering his hasty abandonment of quite a few things at the cafe, including his charger.

He opened a folder of class notes anyway, scrolling through power points and vocabulary lists, wondering if he maybe had time to rewrite that essay (which he had written on the night of the Klonopin Panic Attack, and then watched his professor shred two days later). Technically he'd only been given until tomorrow at seven in the morning to get it done, but if Enjolras really concentrated he was sure Professor Javert would never notice. Of course, there was his dying laptop to contend with, and a complete lack of ideas, but-

Enjolras almost jumped out of his skin at the sudden loud pounding on the front door, completely losing his train of thought and almost dropping the computer.

He stumbled to the door, yanking at the handle until it slowly gave way.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him, black curls slightly damp from the light drizzle outside. Standing in the little hallway, soft lighting making the sharp angles of his face round, Grantaire looked utterly out of place.

"Nice to see you're alive. Mind if I come in?"

He pushed past Enjolras, and only then did the blonde notice the two take-out bags the artist was carrying in his rough hands, water streaming off his green beanie and into puddles on his worn leather jacket.

Bewildered, Enjolras shut the door as Grantaire walked into the kitchen with authority, setting the food on the tidy counter.

"Um..." Enjolras said, at a loss for things to say to Grantaire (and not for the first time). "What's all this?"

Grantaire swiveled around, leaning casually against the counter, as if appraising Enjolras for auction. "I'm not an idiot, Apollo, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't pretend I was. I know something's wrong. You're stressed. You look sick. You're not your usual radiant self lately. I didn't want to say anything," he continued, sweeping off his hat and letting his wild purple-black hair spring every which way. "I know you and I aren't the best of friends, but I figured I'd put pride away and come talk to you."

Enjolras bit his lip, crossing his arms. "And what's that for?" he asked, nodding to the plastic bags.

"Dinner," Grantaire said briskly, turning back and opening a few cabinets, presumably searching for plates. "I figured, knowing you, you haven't eaten all day, which is shit. And I always find food makes otherwise unpleasant conversations go smoother. You like pasta with white sauce, yes?"

Enjolras frowned. "You just said we weren't the best of friends."

"So?"

"How'd you know that was my favorite pasta?"

Grantaire gave him a strange look over his shoulder, and didn't say anything for an almost uncomfortable amount of time. "Lucky guess, I suppose. Grab a few forks."

They sat on opposite ends of Enjolras' couch in silence for a few minutes, before Grantaire finally set down his plate on the scuffed coffee table, carding his hand through those riotous squid ink curls.

"So," he began, tucking his legs up onto the couch. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Enjolras glanced up at him, slowly twirling the long, pale fettuccine on his fork. "I'm fine, Grantaire."

"Humor me."

The blonde sighed, staring intensely at his plate. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, gnawing at the familiar ragged spot until the faint taste of blood pervaded his mouth. "I had a long day. I was tired. You have to know I didn't mean any of those things I said."

"I know. The others... I'm not so sure."

"I shouldn't have taken that out on Jehan," Enjolras said hotly, feeling heat rush to his ears and cheeks. "I... I sometimes have problems. With that sort of thing."

Grantaire fixed him with a concerned expression. "What?"

"Like, anger." Enjolras refused to look up, to see Grantaire’s face. "I don't try to be mean, I don't want to, but- it's hard, okay? I've had problems with that my whole life."

Grantaire did not say anything, and when Enjolras finally looked up he found the other man giving him an unsettlingly affectionate look, like he thought Enjolras hung the moon and stars personally.

"Don't look at me like that," he said softly.

"Like what?"

Enjolras shifted. " _You know._ Don't."

Grantaire sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring Enjolras. "So why were you angry?"

"Because I'm allowed to be angry now and then, okay?" Enjolras snapped. "I'm angry at myself and angry at school and angry at the world, and honestly if you don't leave soon I'm going to be angry with you!"

Grantaire didn't even flinch under Enjolras’ hard stare. "Okay," he said slowly after a moment of silence, obviously choosing his words carefully. "That's okay. You're absolutely allowed to be angry. Hell, I don't remember a day I haven't been angry at least once." He gave a small smile. "But it's no fun being angry by yourself, so I'm here as your punching bag."

The blonde scoffed and looked away, busying himself with stacking his plate next to Grantaire's.

The other man sighed. "You seemed a little distracted today." No response. "Forgetting the meeting, blowing up at everyone like that..." Still nothing. He steeled himself. "Did it have anything to do with that doctor visit you were leaving?"

Enjolras froze, looking resolutely away from Grantaire.

"Those are all mental and physical therapy offices," Grantaire said softly. "I've been to them before."

In silence, Grantaire’s eyes wandered until they landed on the half empty coffee mug, the remnants of what was definitely not apple juice staining the white porcelain.

"Interesting cup choice. I've never seen someone drink alcohol out of a coffee mug on a Saturday night. All alone. It's a little sad."

The tips of Enjolras’ ears turned red, as did two spots high on his cheekbones, and then he was looking at Grantaire with that spark in his eye that could rally thousands and cut down armies.

"Oh, I'm _terribly_ sorry to be so _pitiful_ tonight, I'm sure you were expecting more from your perfect marble statue," he hissed, "but I'm sure you must know as an alcoholic yourself that I could just drink it straight out of the bottle and earn my own little reward for _most pathetic_. Not that I'd want to take that from you, as I'm sure it was hard earned, but until you look in the mirror don't fucking try and tell me how sad my life looks."

Grantaire blinked at him, admittedly surprised. The air hung thick and tense, silence deafening.

"Okay," he said gently. "Okay." He raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, as if calming a spooked horse. "Enjolras."

The blonde startled to hear himself called by his real name by Grantaire, rather than one of his mocking nicknames.

"I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to hurt my feelings so that I'll leave." Enjolras scoffed. "Hey!" Grantaire placed a warm hand on Enjolras’ knee. "If you'll recall, I've dealt with most everything, okay? Mental illness, drug abuse, alcoholism, smoking... the list goes on. I know the tricks of the trade, Enj. I did it with my friends, Joly, Bossuet, even you."

Enjolras knew that, of course. He had been there when Grantaire was first hospitalized after drinking too hard, had watched his friends struggle with the stubborn man and try to get him sober. He had been a wreck, and Enjolras remembered the screaming and insults hurled as Grantaire tried to push them all away.

But Enjolras wasn't an alcoholic. He was just a high-strung twenty-something student with a lot on his mind.

"You can try all you want, but I'm not leaving," Grantaire said.

"Then don't," he snapped.

"Everyone is worried about you. _I'm_ worried about you."

Enjolras gave the other man a sad look. "You. Why should you care?"

"Because, believe it or not, Enjolras, I consider you a friend of some sort, and while I understand you don't feel the same, I hate to see the people I am fond of suffer."

Grantaire’s response was so prompt, so swift, it sounded almost as if he had rehearsed it many times over before now.

Enjolras shook his head. Grantaire had just said he was fond of him.

"You're wrong. I'd like to get to know you better. When we don't argue, you're a terribly interesting person," Enjolras said blankly, feeling his neck grow warm.

Grantaire smiled, a true smile that showed his crooked teeth and deep laugh lines. "So then talk to me. I want to help. But you have to let me in."

Enjolras blinked at him. "I don't know how."

"Why not?" Grantaire slid closer to him.

"I don't like to ask for help," he said quietly, "and nobody's ever offered it."

And then that sad look Grantaire couldn't stand was back on Enjolras’ face.

He gave him a half smile. "Well, don't worry. I'm here now. And you're practically a god already, so I'm sure you can work through this."

Enjolras blinked at him, beautiful face perfectly blank, and then suddenly he crumpled like a piece of paper, letting out a sob and burying his face in his hands.

Oh god. Grantaire had made Enjolras cry.

He sat, shocked, for one agonizing second. "Whoa, are you okay?" he asked stupidly, at an honest loss for words. He slid across the couch. Enjolras continued crying, shoulders shaking. Grantaire tentatively reached out, hands brushing against the blonde's shoulders, and almost instantly Enjolras threw himself forward, sobbing raggedly into the front of Grantaire's shirt. He sat stiffly for a second before quickly throwing his arms around his sobbing counterpart, crushing him close to his chest.

It was closest he had ever been to Enjolras, and under any other circumstances he would be doing some sort of victory dance, but at the moment he had his hands full of crying, exhausted Enjolras for reasons he didn't quite understand, and now didn't really seem like the time. Instead he ran a hand soothingly along his back, pressing a chaste kiss to those soft blonde curls. "Don't cry, okay Enj? I'm here," he said softly, soothingly.

Enjolras twisted his hands tightly in the fabric of Grantaire’s shirt and said nothing.

After a while Enjolras’ sobs petered out to a soft hiccup every now and then, but he made no move to pull away from the embrace, so Grantaire rocked him gently and began speaking in his softest storytelling voice.

"You know, a very long time ago I moved here, to Paris," he murmured. "I'm from Nîmes, if you didn't know. It's small, right on the beach. That's where I was born and raised." Enjolras sniffed. "When I was fifteen my father died. He left behind my mother, and me, and my little sister. All alone. Mom thought if we moved things would be better." He bit his lip. "My father never was a great guy. Nothing made him happy, or proud. He hated my mom, hated me. I can't say I missed him. He never was impressed, with anything much."

Enjolras was quieter now, and Grantaire knew he was listening, but he pretended he didn't.

"So we moved to Nice. Mom worked day and night, Fleur went to school... and me? I skipped class and ran with big groups of dangerous people. You know what I mean." He closed his eyes. "The only thing mom ever had comfort in was my art. If father thought I'd be a rich mathematician, mom always thought I'd end up an artist. She worked three jobs at one point, trying to save up so I could go to some really prestigious art school."

He opened his eyes to keep his voice from wavering. "And then when I was seventeen she died."

"My life went... well, it went to shit after that. Fleur went to some boarding school in the west, and I moved to Paris to go to university. Or, so I told her." He chuckled. "She would worry too much, she's a lot like mom. I took art classes, but I mostly did drugs and smoked and drank and became a hermit. I was- dangerously depressed for months."

He waited for Enjolras to say something, but he didn't.

"And then I met the ABC. And my life finally turned around," he finished softly, combing his fingers through the blonde curls.

It was quiet between them, almost as if something unspoken had passed.

"That's a sad story," Enjolras whispered.

"Most stories are. But it looks like mine may have a happy ending after all," Grantaire mused.

"Can I ask you something?" Enjolras asked, voice muffled by Grantaire’s chest.

"Anything."

"Why did you tell me that? We're not friends. You must think I hate you. And that's an intensely personal story. Why let me hear it?"

"I told you. Most stories are sad. Some have sad beginnings, some have sad middles, and some have sad ends. It's up to you to decide which you want."

"And which did you want?"

"I think I'll settle for a happy ending. That's all I ask. But to have that I needed to get help first."

Enjolras pulled away slightly, wiping his cheeks, head down. "Don't call me perfect anymore, okay?"

"Why?"

"I'm not perfect. I'm a mess. Look at me," he mumbled. "Actually, don't look at me. Just- don't call me perfect. It makes me feel worse."

"If you want, I'll never do it again."

"I'm not a god. I'm not marble. I'm only human, and I have error," he said, tugging at a loose string on the couch.

Grantaire reached for his hand, gripping it tight. "You shouldn't be perfect," he said firmly. "I wouldn't want you to be. That would be boring."

Enjolras looked away, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Enj- all those times I called you perfect... you misunderstood me. What makes you perfect is not any show you put on for the rest of the world. It's you as you are right now. Soft, quiet. Multifaceted."

Enjolras looked back at him, and the intensity in his bloodshot, bright blue eyes took Grantaire’s breath away.

"I want your help, R," he said, biting his lip. "I- I need your help. But," he interjected, "It's just between you and me. Okay? Please don't tell the others. One on one is okay, but... all nine at once would be overwhelming."

"What you need is a support network. There's not one person in that café who would deny you their support, E."

"That's not it. It's been just me for so long... having just you will be strange enough."

Grantaire sighed. "If that's what you want, then I promise no one will hear about this from me. But you have to let me stay."

"Thank you," Enjolras said. "For everything."

"It's no problem," Grantaire said, and Enjolras thought it was strange to have such a different character before him. A Grantaire that was quiet, understanding, sincere. A Grantaire willing to have dinner with Enjolras and have that be that.

Later that night, as they stood in the kitchen washing the rest of the dishes, Grantaire turned away and opened a cabinet. Almost inaudibly, as if he was not even thinking about what he wanted to say, Grantaire mumbled, "Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of. It's just something that makes you more interesting and exciting than marble." He stacked a few plates. "I wouldn't have you any other way."

Enjolras concentrated on the soapy silverware in his hand, feeling the tips of his ears turn warm.

Grantaire stepped back next to him, humming some gentle showtune under his breath, and Enjolras fell just a little bit more in love with him.

**Author's Note:**

> *Sigh* I love this series too much, ugh. I'm sorry for the wait, but thank you for sticking through with this, and for reading! Comments and kudos are much appreciated! Expect at least a couple more installments in the future...


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